Sweat on the ground

Moist all around

Shivering was the witch

Until the mob surround her switch 

The crimes untold

As the woman's wrath unfolds

While the flames ignite 

to the crowds’ delight

Her screams echo fuelling the mobs hate

While masking their fate as her soul surrounds them 

The forest of death has a witches’ breath

With eyes that see through...

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 I feel awkward without coffee

like chasing pert sylvans round Helicon's hills

constant under Urania's dissapproving eye.

Makes one want to get deep into the wood with goat footed pan

erection flailing wild for Bacchus rites.

Or better yet to smash skulls for the ruby juice 

thick Teutonic forest leaning close.

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